


in the darkness burning out

by coffeeinallcaps



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon-Typical Violence, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 16:01:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7229167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeinallcaps/pseuds/coffeeinallcaps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A contradiction: His heart and respiratory rate increase in small dark spaces, but at night he longs for the cold confinement of his cryostasis chamber.</p><p>Sometimes he thinks <i>till the end of the line till the end of the line till the end of the line</i> until he falls asleep and dreams of Steve. Sometimes there’s an answering echo of numbers and a name, but neither the numbers nor the name apply to him anymore.</p><p>Sergeant Barnes, serial number three-two-five-five-seven (is that all of it or part of it? He can’t remember) is dead. He isn’t the Asset; he was, but he no longer is. He didn’t know who Bucky was, but now he does and he doesn’t.</p><p>He is Bucky, but he isn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the darkness burning out

He can’t remember how long it’s been since the hard reset.

He remembers the reset itself. He remembers an eye socket crunching under his fist. He remembers his shoulder snapping, blinding pain, _…you till the end of the line_. He remembers bringing his mission, the man from the bridge—Steve, his Steve—back to the shore.

He remembers living like a feral animal for a while. He doesn’t remember much else from that period.

He remembers that his right shoulder function was significantly impaired for a long time. There’s still a dull ache lining the joint, pain pulsing in a rhythmic pattern like a warning light flashing within.

He knows that his body’s cuts and bruises and broken bones heal faster than those of ordinary bodies. He knows this because he has been keeping track of his various injuries as they come and fade and come and fade. He knows that the breaking point of his body lies well beyond that of ordinary bodies. He knows this because they took him there, to the breaking point of his body, many times.

(He also knows it because they told him, but his mind shies away from that particular knot of memories when he tries to disentangle it further. There are plenty of other knots for him to disentangle. He doesn’t try a second time.)

He knows it doesn’t make sense, but the shoulder continues to hurt. It throbs in the night and it locks and pops on days when he covers a lot of ground, which is most days after the indeterminate period that followed the reset. He starts to favor the metal arm. The metal arm whirrs and clicks, but not in ways that make his stomach queasy.

He thinks that maybe the pain in his right shoulder is psychosomatic.

He thinks, in a voice he vaguely recognizes, _Doesn’t make it any less fuckin’ annoying, though._

 

A contradiction: His heart and respiratory rate increase in small dark spaces, but at night he longs for the cold confinement of his cryostasis chamber.

Sometimes he thinks _till the end of the line_ _till the end of the line_ _till the end of the line_ until he falls asleep and dreams of Steve. Sometimes there’s an answering echo of numbers and a name, but neither the numbers nor the name apply to him anymore.

Sergeant Barnes, serial number three-two-five-five-seven (is that all of it or part of it? He can’t remember) is dead. He isn’t the Asset; he was, but he no longer is. He didn’t know who Bucky was, but now he does and he doesn’t.

He is Bucky, but he isn’t.

 

Several months and countries later, a lady wearing a warm smile and a green apron asks him, slowly but kindly, “Spune-mi cum te cheamă, te rog.”

He lifts the corners of his mouth at her and says, “Bucky.”

He receives his drink in a large paper cup. The name is scribbled on the side, and it feels only slightly out of place cradled between his hands.

The drink is pretty damn tasty, too.

 

* * *

 

He reads about the end of the line on the front page of a newspaper.

They come for him with a lot of noise. Shattering glass, gunfire, sirens. Eventually he gets surrounded and he thinks that maybe he doesn’t mind, because he’s tired and they’re so loud and he just wants all the noise to stop.

He doesn’t struggle, but they treat him like he does. He knows they can’t really be blamed for that.

They put him in a cage that must’ve been built for him, or someone like him. If they even know about someone like him.

Steve—his Steve—looks over his shoulder as he walks away. His eyes say: This is it. This cage they built for you is where it ends.

Steve looks away, and the line snaps.

 

But it’s not the end.

 

“Which Bucky am I talking to,” Steve asks, face grave, and he wants to laugh angrily because screw you, Steve. Sergeant James Barnes is dead and the Asset is no more but there’s only ever been one Bucky here. You’re talking to the Bucky who saved your ass countless times and the Bucky whose ass you saved countless times. The Bucky who died for you and the Bucky you would’ve died for. The Bucky you’ve been chasing for the past two or so years and the Bucky who managed to stayed the hell away from you the past two or so years.

They’re all the same fuckin’ Bucky, pal.

When he breathes the pain in his right shoulder reminds him of the feeling of teeth grinding to dust. (They started using a mouth guard after that.)

The other man says sensibly, “Oh, and just like that we’re supposed to trust him?” and he bristles, thinks _Of course not_ , and Steve sets his jaw and says nothing, which means _Watch me_.

His head hurts.

 

A tentative conclusion: The pain in his right shoulder must indeed be psychosomatic, because he doesn’t feel it at all when Steve places a warm hand on it and squeezes.

 

The blast that takes off his arm seems to reach all the way into his bone marrow. Agony. Tendrils of fire spreading down his spine and up from the base of his skull. He thinks maybe he’s dying. He doesn’t know how to feel about that.

He drifts. He must be delirious with shock because through his eyelashes he’s watching Steve viciously beat someone to near death, which is something his Steve would never do, he’s pretty sure.

 

He doesn’t die.

He doesn’t know how to feel about that.

 

“You sure about this?” Steve asks, and he thinks _Of course not_ but he smiles and nods.

The shoulder doesn’t hurt when Steve’s warm hand is resting on it.

Steve’s eyes ask: Is this it?

He thinks, _Of course not._

“I can’t trust my own mind,” he tells Steve, by way of explanation and apology, and it’s true, of course it’s true, but.

But.

Bucky steps into the cold confinement of his cryostasis chamber, and closes his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Me: I don't know whether this Winter Falcon fic I'm planning to write should be Bucky POV or Sam POV, better try my hand at both  
> Bucky POV: decides to descend into Steve feels  
> Me: ...okay sure why not
> 
> This is my first time posting anything in this fandom that's not [a five-sentence drabble](coffeeinallcaps.tumblr.com/tagged/scribbles), which is very exciting and a little nerve-racking, so please let me know if you enjoyed this (a few words, a gif, a ❤, it's all good, it's all great). And please come have intense feelings about Sebastian Stan's face with me [on Tumblr](http://coffeeinallcaps.tumblr.com)!


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